Horse & Hound
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Credit: Karen Thompson
Dear diary,
We are now in the “I’ve-lost-count-and-the-will-to-live-but-somewhere-in-the-billions” day of the human strangles epidemic with one day blurring into another; much like the most of the nineties for the Happy Mondays — only minus the white stuff and a plethora of loose moralled groupies.
As one day merges into another, I am struck by how one thing remains a constant in my life, one thing remains reassuringly the same no matter what goes on around me: yep, my total inability to understand women. Or more specifically, my mother.
Not five months ago she was snotting all over my shoulders, not to mention poor Herman the German Needle Man and Cool New Shoes Man, as she forgot once again that I am the Hoverine, and prepared herself for my last chapter. Not four months ago she pledged the microscopic last dregs of her soul (what was left from that and her bodily offerings to the bank manager) to be a much better person — try not to laugh, she was very serious at the time — if I could ever be sound enough to make it to the field. Not three months ago she was overcome by emotion at the letter written by mini-mother (whose soul frankly is a LOT more intact) to Father Christmas foregoing presents if he would make me better, even just enough to be a lawn mower for the rest of my days.